


The Book

by 221Books



Series: Book!verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, book porn, but without the comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:19:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Books/pseuds/221Books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives another one of his usual care-packages from Mycroft, while abroad during The Great Hiatus, except this time the package contains something wholly unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book

It’s been 18 months since Sherlock Holmes has last seen London, and in that time he hasn’t stayed in one place long enough to ever be comfortable. He hasn’t been in a place that felt like home, and he hasn’t had any of the many and often basic luxuries that London and 221B once provided him. Eighteen months; the same length of time between the start of his friendship with John Watson, and his betrayal of that friendship. Eighteen months between acquaintance, and the need to sacrifice everything to protect one of the few people he's ever cared so much for.

Throughout much of that time in London, Sherlock had been playing a dangerous, and carefully calculated, game of cat and mouse with master criminal Jim Moriarty. Upon learning the merest hints as to the true extent of the web that was Moriarty’s network, Sherlock knew it needed to be brought down, and he knew he couldn’t do it alone. That’s where his brother Mycroft came in.

Mycroft claims to merely occupy a minor position in the British Government, but if you were to ask Sherlock, he would tell you that Mycroft _is_ the British Government (when he’s not too busy being the Secret Service, or the CIA, that is). He has the resources of Queen and Country at his fingertips, and is Sherlock’s older brother by seven years. Collectively, these attributes of power, resources, and personal investment, qualify him to be the perfect confidant and handler to Sherlock during the mission.

Together, Mycroft and Sherlock had come up with a multitude of plans to cover the numerous possibilities of what they both knew would be the inevitable, climactic, and, if everything went according to plan, likely the final meeting between Sherlock and Moriarty. Once the plans were decided, painstakingly studied, memorised to the most minute detail, and every eventuality accounted for, Sherlock began to lead Moriarty into their trap. The game was on, and Sherlock’s role was to convince his opponent that he was too oblivious to realise he was losing. Certainly not a role he was familiar with, Sherlock thought, but then a detective such as himself needs to be skilled in the art of disguise. In this case, he was in the disguise of one so narcissistic and caught up in his own ego, that he didn’t recognise his failure as it was happening right in front of his eyes. Maybe not all of it was such unfamiliar territory, after all.

As Moriarty was believing Sherlock to be many steps behind in the game, in reality he was many steps ahead, leading Moriarty along a path of his and Mycroft’s own making.

Their final meeting took place on the rooftop of St. Bart’s Hospital.

Then everything went wrong.

Sherlock had quickly come to learn that his friends were in danger. Moriarty had snipers trained on Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and John. One sniper for each of them. If Sherlock didn’t comply with Moriarty’s demands by throwing himself from the rooftop, his friends would die. No matter which option he chose, he would never see them again. It was at this point that Sherlock successfully got through to Moriarty, by making it perfectly clear he would do whatever it took, going to whatever means necessary, to have the snipers called off. Moriarty had, in turn, realised that as long as Sherlock was alive, he had a way out of his own suicide, and a way to save his friends. So with that, and in one deftly quick move that was faster than Sherlock could react, Moriarty pulled a gun from the inside pocket of his coat, putting it in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

The action was surprising to say the least, and not at all the direction Sherlock had thought this was going. Moriarty was dead, and there was no way to call the snipers off. Sherlock had to jump. And so, with one simple code word texted to Mycroft, the plan, made just for such an eventuality and code-named ‘Lazarus’, was put into action.

The penultimate step before falling had to do with John. Before coming to his rooftop meeting, Sherlock had to make sure John was far away from the hospital, where he would be safe. He knew that if John had remained with him, he would have found out about the meeting and insisted on attending. None of this was his fight, and it wouldn’t have been fair to put him in such danger. So Sherlock had tricked him into leaving, with the aid of a staged call made by a member of his homeless network. The man, who had actually been a paramedic at one point before losing everything to a gambling addiction, had informed John in a very convincing manner that Mrs Hudson had been shot. Sherlock had refused to go with him to see her, stating Mrs Hudson was merely his landlady and not someone he was concerned about. John had be incensed. He didn’t have time to lecture Sherlock, so he simply told Sherlock off, before storming out of the lab in a rage. Sherlock knew it was possible he had just seen John Watson for the last time, and he hated to have left things on such a bad note, but at least this way John would live to be angry.

And now here Sherlock was. Moriarty was dead, and he had to jump, but not before he took care of one last thing. In that moment he worried that he might get to see John again, after all.

He stepped onto the ledge of the rooftop, took his mobile from his pocket, and called John. He looked down at the pavement below as a black cab pulled up. The door opened, and John rush out, his mobile already to his ear in answer. He’d figured out the deception, and sensing Sherlock was in danger, rushed back to Bart’s right away. Of course he had. John Watson wasn’t a stupid man. Sherlock knew he should have planned for this better.

John looked up to the rooftop’s ledge and his heart skipped a beat.

They could see each other from where they stood, but not in detail.

Sherlock confessed that everything he’d said and done up to that point was a ruse - their friendship, the cases, everything John had come to know and love about Sherlock. It was all fake. Sherlock was a fake. It was necessary that John believe everything was a lie, and that Sherlock wasn’t able to handle the shame and disgrace of being shown for the fraud he was. If he believed it, he would be safe. After that, and despite John’s pleas, Sherlock had said goodbye, and hung up. Then he stepped off the ledge.

As much as lying to John had hurt them both deeply, it had to be done. This was for John’s own protection. This wasn’t his fight. This was between Sherlock and Moriarty, and John had already been used as a pawn in their game on more than one occasion. Moriarty, having quickly discovered just how much John meant to Sherlock, had placed the doctor in danger for the sake of his own entertainment - a way to watch Sherlock dance. Now Sherlock would do whatever he could to keep John safe, even if it meant discrediting himself, and destroying everything he’d achieved. He knew John would have followed him to the ends of the earth had he known. He would have insisted on helping, not caring about the possible dangers and self-sacrifice involved, because that’s the kind of man John is, and Sherlock couldn’t have put him in that position, or that danger. So he and Mycroft had kept John in the dark about their plans. They had kept him as distracted and as far away from the truth as possible, and Sherlock had sacrificed his own reputation and friendship for it.

The deception went off without a hitch. Everyone, except for the few key players in the charade who were sworn to secrecy, thought Sherlock to be dead. A funeral was had, Sherlock was buried, and a tombstone erected in Camberwell Cemetery.

In the end, Sherlock had betrayed John’s trust, broken his heart, and tried to push him away as much as possible before falling, hoping that John might have an easier time moving on if he actually believed what Sherlock was telling him. At least this way he knew John was safe, and would remain that way.

\-------------

By now John has probably moved on in his life.

Sherlock on the other hand, and with the aid of Mycroft, has been transported to the Continent. Here, he’s spent the last eighteen months moving from place to place, needing to be ready to pick up and go at any time. It’s all part of the job - especially now. He often thinks about how, although this last year and a half has been the same span of time as his friendship with John, it’s seemed infinitely longer. He rarely stays in the same place for more than a week, he never lets his guard down, even for a moment, and he’s always ready to spring into action or fall back into plan B (or even C) at a moment’s notice. Being transient is nothing new to him, and he’s never been so thankful for the ability.

There are certain elements to covert missions that make things like communication and the acquisition of essential supplies tricky, but luckily Sherlock has what some might call ‘friends in high places’ - more specifically, Sherlock has his brother, Mycroft. It’s been because of Mycroft and his resources of Queen and Country that Sherlock has been able to survive and succeed as long as he has. Although Mycroft has always been smarter than Sherlock, where the brother’s differ - and where Sherlock has the distinct advantage - is that he’s willing to do the ‘leg work’ involved in such operations. Mycroft helps out as he’s needed, doing much of the initial planning, and moving Heaven and Earth if need be; all from the comfort of his office in London. The rest - any glitches in the plan, details that need to be revised last minute, and of course the ‘leg work’ itself - is up to Sherlock.

On a mission such as this, adaptations of lifestyle usually need to be made in order to increases one’s chances of survival. Of the many adaptations that Sherlock has made over the course of this operation, the adoption of a nomadic lifestyle is certainly one of the most dramatic. Being nomadic can complicate many of the niceties that sedentary beings often take for granted - the most important of these being the system of sending and receiving messages and supplies. Since the intended recipient, in this case, Sherlock, likely wouldn’t be staying in one place long enough for the post to catch up with him (not to mention the sensitivity of what might be sent), an alternative method needs to be available. It’s essential that Mycroft be able to send his brother supplies as needed, and it’s therefore essential that Sherlock be able to communicate his current location, as well as any information as to what specific supplies he may be needing. Often times, the faster these transactions can be made, the better, and therefore the handling of this possible complication was of utmost concern during the planning stages. The Holmes brothers addressed the issue early on and came up with a solution. Sherlock’s job is to keep Mycroft apprised of where he’s headed, when he’ll arrive, and what, if any, supplies he needs. It’s always appreciated if Sherlock can give Mycroft enough notice to make sure things go smoothly, but they both know it’s not always possible. Mycroft’s job is to then utilise existing agents in the area, and choose drop points along the way where care packages can be made available for pick-up. These care packages usually contain things like food rations, medical supplies, disposable cell phones, fake IDs and documents, and anything else Mycroft thinks might be of use to his brother, or anything Sherlock has been able to communicate his need for. Mycroft does everything he can to provide these packages on as regular a basis as possible, knowing that the morale boost provided by having  _something_  that can be relied on, can be just as valuable as the material items contained in the packages themselves.

Very few words were shared between the brothers when Sherlock was deposited in Amsterdam before beginning the mission. Although neither of them said it, they both knew their was a chance they may never see each other again. Planning and preparation can only go so far. It may make things look straight-forward, and even simple, on paper, but it doesn’t always transfer to the real world. New or unseen factors that arise can complicate situations, and making the wrong decision in the wrong moment can cause months worth of planning to crumble in an instant. They both hoped that between them, their shared skills and resources would be enough to succeed.

\-------------

It’s midday in the current corner of the world which Sherlock inhabits, and the sun is at its maximum height in the sky. It beats down on him, making the already impossibly dry, dusty and suffocating air even more so. He wears his usual faded brown khaki trousers, and an off-white linen shirt mottled with stains. The trousers are covered in patches. The shirt, on the other hand, is cheap enough and so readily available, that patching is not worth the hassle. It’s much more economical to just replace it when needed. The shirt Sherlock currently wears is getting to be quite worn, and will need replacing soon. He makes a mental note of it. Wrapped around Sherlock’s head and neck is a houndstooth patterned scarf. Made from a thick linen, it’s indispensable for keeping the sun off his head, the sand from his face, and the eyes of possible enemies from recognising him. Over his shoulder is slung a tan canvas bag containing crucial items such as his water canteen, and old pair of binoculars, a lock-pick kit, and various other trappings too valuable or essential to leave in his room at the hostel.

Sherlock makes his way through the bustling throngs. He’s on his way to the most recent drop-point, where he’ll be picking up a long-awaited care package. This particular drop-point is located down a back alley and behind a building, away from the commotion of the street markets. Sherlock hates being in such densely populated areas, as it means spotting danger and making a quick escape is that much harder. He tries to avoid such areas as these whenever possible, but it’s not always an option. Some things are beyond his control. Any back way he could use to get to the drop point would involve climbing along rooftops and scaling the sides of buildings. Traveling via the main commuting routes is much less conspicuous, not to mention far less invoking of memories best not revisited - rooftop chases across London with a certain ex-army doctor, for one. Sherlock hasn’t been here for long, but he’s already tired of it: the streets are so busy that he can’t walk more than a few feet without coming into physical contact with a person (or animal) for lack of space, he’s constantly being peddled at by merchants, and is on continuous guard for pickpockets and other petty criminals. He doesn’t have much on him that could be stolen, but everything he does have is valuable to him in some way, and he can’t afford to lose any of it.

It takes an excruciatingly long time for Sherlock to get where he’s going. Movement through the crowds seems to become slower and more tedious the longer he does it.

Finally, Sherlock arrives at the drop point. He finds it to be a small establishment that looks like a restaurant of some kind. He quickly takes in his surroundings as he makes his way to a table in a dimly-lit corner. The main room is plain and functional, offering small, simple meals and shishas. The place is well-furnished, but sparsely decorated. Sherlock surveys the other small tables around the perimetre of the room, each with one or two chairs at them, and atop each table, an oil lamp. There are a few larger tables in the centre of the room, in various states of disrepair, having at most four chairs around them. Sherlock notices 12 patrons aside from himself, out of the estimated 30 patron capacity the room appears to be furnished for. There’s also a man guarding a door at the back of room, and one man to serve customers. As soon as Sherlock makes eye contact with the server, he approaches his table. Sherlock communicates in his best Romani that he is waiting for someone, and to please come back then.

The establishment has the air of a typical hole-in-the-wall pub back home. Sherlock suspects it masks much more dubious activities, but that’s none of his concern right now. If he was to investigate every suspicious place he had encountered since starting this mission, he would probably still be at the airport in Antwerp, where Mycroft’s private jet had dropped him off. He knows this location, as with many others he’s been to previously, will only become a danger to him if he makes it that way. If he keeps his head down, acts casual, and minds his own business, the place will be as safe as he needs it to be. Out of habit and necessity, he takes note of all possible entries and exits. There are no windows, and only one doorway aside from the one he’d entered through. It’s guarded, and judging by the layout of the building, it doesn’t lead outside anyway. Sherlock eyes the guard. He can see that despite his stoic countenance, the man is very much alert, and aware of his surroundings. As he does his visual rounds of the room, his gaze falls on Sherlock. They making eye contact for a moment, before Sherlock turns his gaze away, returning his focusing to the mission at hand.

The building lays sheltered from the heat of the sun by the surrounding structures. This, combined with the stone walls, makes the inside of the building dark and cool - a very welcome change from many of the places Sherlock’s been lately. Artificial interior light is provided by a combination of dim strip lights strung along the ceiling, and oil lamps on the tables. The walls are very plainly adorned, having little on them aside from a few odd pieces of art, and a crackled, smoky mirror with a gold-coloured frame. There’s also a few oil lamps that are so old as to look antiquated, the only evidence their past use being the burnt oil stains on the stone walls behind them. The floor is the same hard, compacted medium-grey stone of other buildings in the area. A haze of smoke hangs in the still air.

According to Mycroft, the contact Sherlock is about to meet with is one of the best agents in the area. Sherlock doesn’t know much about the man, and he doesn’t care to. He could deduce some details about him, but it would be wholly unnecessary information; a waste of mental space. Mycroft has entrusted this agent with delivering the care package, and that’s good enough for Sherlock. His only mission right now is to go in, retrieve the package, and retreat back to the relative safety of his room at one of the many local hostels, where he can sort through the package’s contents and reorganise himself in relative peace and comfort.

Sherlock spots a new patron entering the building. He deduces near-instantly that this is his contact, based on the blue checked scarf he wears around his neck. They were each informed by their respective handlers of the other’s relative dress and description, so as to be able to identify each other at the rendezvous.

The man sees Sherlock, and gives a small, quick nod.

Sherlock waves him over to his table, and greets him curtly in Romani. No names are exchanged, and customary pleasantries are only shown so as to blend in with the people around them. This is a job, same as any other, and neither man has the time nor the interest in getting to know someone they will likely never see again. As the two sit, the server comes over, and they order drinks.

The man reaches into his bag and extracts the package. It’s rectangular, wrapped in the same brown wax paper as used by local merchants, and has no doubt been re-dressed since arriving from London. He casually places it on the table between them. He takes a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his vest, and removes one, placing it between his lips. Looking at Sherlock, he holds the pack out to him in mute offering while simultaneously digging in another pocket for his lighter. Sherlock takes a cigarette, and thanks the man.

Sherlock leans back in his chair, the wood creaking as he tilts his head back, and blows smoke into the air above him. He’s distracted for a moment by the way the new tendrils of smoke swirl and blend with the old, which seem to hang permanently in the air. It crosses his mind that he could probably determine the type of tobacco used if he studied the ashes from his cigarette, but he quickly dismisses the thought. It would serve no purpose, and to be honest, he just can’t be bothered. He’s too tired, mentally as well as physically, to take any joy in such things anymore.

Sherlock is brought out of his reverie as the server approaches their table. He’s carrying a worn silver tray on which rests a teapot and two small glasses. He speaks briefly with Sherlock’s contact, before depositing the tray on their table and leaving. Sherlock grasps the teapot and pours them each a cup of what he deduces to be sweet mint tea. Even in the heat of the day, the drink provides a welcome change from the bitter stuff he’s been receiving in Mycroft’s care packages.

They both finish their tea and cigarettes in relative silence. Eventually Sherlock stands up, thanks the man for his hospitality, and places some money on the table to cover the cost of the tea. He picks up the package from the table, and places it in his shoulder bag. If everything goes according to plan, Sherlock won’t be sticking around here long enough to need this man’s help again. With the package tucked away safely, he leaves without another word.

\-------------

Sherlock arrives back at his small room at the hostel, shucks off his shoulder bag and tosses it onto his bed.

The room is on the ground floor, furnished for functionality rather than aesthetics, and would look sparse if it wasn’t for its small size - less than 50 square feet, Sherlock estimates. It’s sole furnishings amount to a small cot, a chipped porcelain wash basin on a metal stand, and a small wooden trunk trimmed with brass and a catch where a padlock can be used. When Sherlock first arrived in this room, he had found the trunk to contain some slightly musty blankets and pillows that he’s since made use of on his bed. The stone walls are unadorned, save for a few large nails for hanging, and small holes where nails likely used to be. The stone floor is bare, except for a single, narrow carpet of a very distinctive loop pile construction. Highly durable, but hard to clean. This particular one is made from wool, although Sherlock has seen ones at the markets made of nylon and olefin fibre. The only artificial light sources are a single, decrepit light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room by a cord, and an oil lamp which sits on the trunk. The room has only one window, facing east, high up, and too narrow for anyone to fit through, either in or out. Sherlock despises the idea of only having one entry and exit point, but this seemed to be a pretty standard layout for these rooms. It’s just one of those times when he has to accept things for what they are, and make due as best he can.

And make due, he does.

It’s starting to get dark in the room, so he lights the oil lamp. The sun is beginning to set, and Sherlock welcomes the temporary respite from another blazing hot day. He rolls his shoulders, moving his arms around, stretching and massaging the muscles to work out the kinks. Although a backpack would provide much better weight distribution, the shoulder bag has many features that make it the better choice for Sherlock, in his current environment. It’s much easier to guard from pickpockets, as he can keep it in sight, and he can retrieve items from it much quicker, should the need arise. Normally, he switches the bag from shoulder to shoulder throughout the day, to ensure one doesn’t get too sore, but he hasn’t been able to do that lately. His left shoulder is still aching from a run-in with some rather unpleasant characters a week back. They didn’t have anything to do with Moriarty’s network - quite the opposite, actually. They were merely a pair of common street criminals who thought they could bully Sherlock out of the few possessions he owned. Sherlock had won in the end, though. His disguise at the time had allowed him to pass himself off, very convincingly, as an elderly street merchant, and the thieves hadn’t counted on their target being so skilled a fighter. In the end, Sherlock walked away with a badly bruised shoulder, a bloody lip and a few bruises to his torso and face, but he counted himself lucky that he was still conscious and in possession of all his belongings - unlike the two men he left behind in the alley. Such incidents aren’t uncommon in his current life, and so he’s learnt to be on guard at all times.

He walks the few steps to the wash basin in one corner of the room, and sees that the water has been refreshed since this morning. Sherlock removes his scarf, giving it a few distracted shakes in an attempt to get the sand and dust out, before hanging it on one of the nearby nails. Stooping over the basin, he dips his hands into the clear, calm water, cupping them together, and bringing them up to splash his face. The sensation of the cool water on his skin is instantly relieving. He scrubs his hands over his face, and around the back of his neck, noting that he’s in need of a shave and haircut.

A few more splashes, and a bit more scrubbing, and Sherlock opens his eyes to see that the water is much browner upon its return to the basin, especially when contrasted against the bright white of the porcelain. He watches as the small grains of sand and dirt slowly settle on the bowl’s bottom, looking right at home alongside the existing chips and scars of the porcelain. Half in a daze, Sherlock continues to stare until all the detritus has settled, and the water is calm and clear again. He sighs, blowing out a breath of air, then turns, and walks back to his cot. He makes a somewhat vain attempt at fluffing the pillows and arranging the blankets more comfortably, before sitting down.

Sherlock takes his shoulder bag from where it landed after being tossed onto the cot. He opens it and lays its contents out on the blanket in front of him. He pulls out the package, careful not to jostle it too much. The package has almost certainly had a rough trip over from London, and a few more bounces or rough handling should be of no consequence to it, but he knows the value of what the package contains, and it just seems disrespectful to be anything other than caring in its handling. He notices it to be larger, and, picking it up, heavier than usual. He really hopes Mycroft included that set of binoculars he’d requested last time they were in communication. He’d traded his old pair for a piece of crucial information from a contact he’d made, and although it had been worth it, he could really use another pair. Communication with Mycroft isn’t always reliable - or even possible - in this part of the world, and so it sometimes takes a while for his requests to be answered and fulfilled - if they get through at all. Sherlock unties the string that’s securing the wrapping paper around the package. He winds it around his hand, and ties it off into a neat bundle before setting it aside to be returned to his bag upon repacking. If he was back in London, he wouldn’t think twice about the string after removing it from whatever purpose it was serving, but here, resources are scarce. He never knows what could prove useful to him later, so he keeps almost everything that comes into his possession.

He unwraps the paper from the package, folds it, and sets it aside. He uses his fingernail to break the packing tape seal, and opens the box to examine the individual contents. His eyes quickly scan over the items as he brings them out of the box, one at a time, making a mental inventory as he lays them out in front of him. It’s everything that he expected to be there - packages of food rations, water purification tablets, another disposable mobile, and a new set of binoculars, among other things. Thank goodness for Mycroft, Sherlock thinks. As much as the brothers like to pretend otherwise, they really do care about each other.

After removing all the contents Sherlock was expecting to receive, he notices, slightly perplexed, that there’s still items remaining.

The first is a plain white envelope. He picks it up and closely examines it, turning it over in his hands. There is no visible writing on the outside and it’s unsealed. He opens it, and removes a piece of expensive stationary with a handwritten note on it. Although the note is not signed, he immediately recognises the handwriting as Mycroft’s. The note reads simply:

_Thought you might like to see this. He’s been very busy since you’ve been gone._

Sherlock furrows his brow and puts the note aside, puzzled. He reaches back into the package and grasps a medium-sized, yellow padded envelope, also completely free of visible markings. It’s the standard size and weight of one such envelope sold at any of the postal outlets back in London. He thinks he might be able deduce exactly which post office it came from, but he stops himself before he finishes the thought process. He doesn’t need more fuel to drive the fire of home-sickness that’s been burning in the back of his mind and heart all these months. He pushes the thoughts away. He holds the envelope in his hands, turning it over, feeling the weight and shape of what it contains, and quickly determines it to be a book of some kind - hardcover, definitely. He can’t imagine what kind of book Mycroft would think valuable enough, or useful enough to him, to send it all this way. It’s not as if it’s heavy, but it’s extra weight all the same, and when Sherlock has to limit his total possessions to what he can carry on his person, every one of the few possessions he owns must be worth the weight and space they cost.

The yellow envelope is sealed. He removes his locking folding knife from his pocket, unfolding the blade with one hand - a move that is so ruthlessly efficient from practice, that it’s become second nature to him. The blade is well-honed with a very keen edge, and it pierces the envelope with almost no resistance. He slowly drags the blade across the top flap, enjoying the feeling of using his knife for something other than covert, mischievous activities, or in the name of self-defence. Once the envelope is open, he closes the knife and returns it to his pocket. Holding the envelope in his left hand, he reaches into it with his right. He grasps the book, and pulls it out.

It’s titled  _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes & Dr John Watson_* with the authorship John H. Watson. On the cover is a candid picture of Sherlock and John, standing on the stoop of 221B. John is dressed pragmatically in his usual style of his favourite jumper, jacket and jeans. Sherlock is showing his left-side profile (his left side always was the better one), and wearing his beloved Belstaff coat. Oh, how he misses that coat! Despite the hotter-than-hell average temperature of his current location, he longs to be reunited with it. It’s always been a sort of security blanket to him - in both the metaphorical and literal ways that such an object is - and it’s been one of the material comforts of home he misses most often. He longs to feel the weight of it hanging off his shoulders, and the glide of the silk lining against his clothes and skin. There’s been many times when he was about to go somewhere, and would, just for a split second, forget where he was. He would think to reach for the coat that wasn’t there, and the reality of the situation would come flooding back. He would shake the feeling off, shove any memories of his coat, and of home, away in the back of his mind, and continue on. In reality the coat is back in London, safe with Mycroft. He had left it there before leaving on his mission, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, and he takes greater comfort than he would ever admit, at the knowledge that it’s waiting for him when he gets home.  He  _will_  wear it again on day.

He stares at the book for a moment, not quite sure what to make of it. Surely this must be some kind of cruel joke thought up by Mycroft. He opens it to the first inside title page and sees that it’s signed “ _Piss off!_ ” followed by John’s signature - slightly different and more legible from the one he uses to sign prescriptions, but still John’s signature. Sherlock guesses this is a copy Mycroft had requested personally, and that John is still angry at Mycroft for the whole ‘selling his little brother out to a master criminal and driving him to commit suicide’ bit. Sherlock flips through the pages, only vaguely scanning their contents. He still doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and he’s reluctant to fully process it in his mind. Pages and pages of text, documenting so many of the cases he and John shared. Each time his eyes linger long enough to catch a glimpse of something that sparks a memory or strong emotion, he quickly dismisses it. He knows that in order to keep his focus on the mission at hand, he must keep himself distant from any feelings the book could potentially invoke.

In the center of the book is a collection of colour photos, mostly of him and John - some looking to have been pulled from newspapers and other media, and some from personal collections provided by friends. And of course, there’s a photo of him in  _that hat_. It wasn’t even his hat! Sherlock sighs and snaps the book shut. He hangs his head and closes his  eyes, pensive as he tries to process what he’s just seen. Why would Mycroft want to show him this? He’s at far too critical a point in the mission to afford such distractions. Sherlock’s mind races with a hundred thoughts as to how to react to this book - what to do about it. Part of him wants to simply toss the book aside and dismiss it as the trivial, material thing it is; another part of him wants to gently place it down, treating it with respect and care. Either way, he thinks maybe he’ll just cover it with the blanket, or maybe put it in his bag - out of sight, out of mind - isn’t that how the saying goes? Not a great solution, but it might buy him some time until he can think of something better. Part of him wants him to throw it across the room, releasing all the pent up anger and frustration that’s been building inside him, unable to be released. How could Mycroft think he would need such a mental obstacle, especially now? Why can’t Mycroft just bloody well  _think_!? Sherlock scolds himself mentally: '" _Why can’t_ Mycroft _just_ think _?" Why can’t you bloody well control yourself? This isn’t the first time you’ve had to overcome your own mind for the sake of this mission. Get a hold of yourself, for gods sake!'_  Inwardly, Sherlock’s mind is fighting with itself - all the options of how to react to this situation fighting for dominance and control of his outward actions. Externally, Sherlock is just sitting there, brow furrowed and a stunned look on his face, staring at the book he holds, waiting for something to happen. He’s never been any good at this whole emotions thing, anyway.

Eventually, something wins in his mind. Sherlock doesn’t have any control over what happens next - it’s more of an impulsive fit of emotion that takes over, when he suddenly and violently hurls the book across the small room. It strikes the wall opposite him with a crash of bending pages and cracking spine. It bounces off the rim of the water basin, rocking the bowl just enough to cause water to slosh over the edge, and knocking the houndstooth scarf from where it hangs on the wall. The book lands on the floor, open and awkward and bent. The scarf gracefully falls over it, covering the book like a shroud.

A moment passes. Sherlock gets up. He begins to pace anxiously around the small room, gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and gesturing his arms wildly around his head as he tries to gain control of his thoughts. He goes back to the spot on the bed where the contents of his bag have been laid out. Quickly sorting through them, he brings up one of the packages of food rations that includes what the entirety of his English soul loathes to call tea. It doesn’t even remind him enough of tea to make him homesick for something better. The paper tag on the end of the string claims this to be Earl Grey, certainly one of Sherlock’s favourites back home, but  _this_  particular sample… Sherlock smells it - the same dusty variety he’s always received. How he misses the wonderful, sensual experience of the teas from home. Of all the strange requests for supplies Mycroft has been able to fulfill for him over the last year and a half, Sherlock doesn’t understand why he still has to put up with  _this_. It would be no trouble at all, he thinks, for Mycroft to just throw in a package of actual, decent tea for once. Hell, anything would be better than this! He makes a mental note to bring it up during his next opportunity for communication with his brother.

Sherlock sets up his small propane stove in the centre of the room, and fills his tin mug with water from his canteen. He’s on autopilot as he works. His mind is racing far too fast to be able to think about making tea, and if he allows himself to think about anything else, he’ll think about the book and what’s in it. So he tries his best to think of nothing, as he crouches on the floor, his back to the book, and knees to his chest, waiting for the water to boil.

\-------------

By now it’s dark outside.

Inside, where Sherlock inhabits, dull flickering shadows dance about the room, cast by the modicum of light the oil lamp provides. The lamp sits on the chest in front of him, casting a warm glow onto himself and the stove, as he absentmindedly watches the water heat up. The book is behind him, temporarily banished into the shadow cast by Sherlock’s own body.

His mind wanders off for a moment, lost in thoughts of nothing, and when he comes back to himself, the water is at a roaring boil. He turns off the burner, and adds the tea bag that he realises he’s been clutching. He’s about the take the mug from the burner, when he realises how hot it will be. His first thought it to use his houndstooth scarf as a protective barrier between his hand and the cup, but then he remembers where it is. Instead, he goes back to the cot, and rummages through his possessions. He comes up with an old piece of scrap canvas that should work just fine.

Taking the mug in his hands, he goes back to the cot. He sits, leaning against the stoney, uneven wall. Across the room, the book remains untouched on the ground, the scarf still covering it. He takes a deep breath in and out, staring at the steam as it rises up off the surface of the tea. His stainless steel camping mug is just another one of the things he owns for completely pragmatic purposes. It’s simple, durable, always there when he needs it, and it never fails to remind him of John; this mug, that is dented and scratched from use, and covered in scars. Sherlock thinks of how he misses the fine beauty and delicacy of the bone china teacups of home, and the weight and sturdiness of a porcelain mug. In his mind he sees the kitchen work surface at Baker Street, the kettle still hot, and his and John’s mugs sitting side by side, steeping. After a moment, he shakes himself from his thoughts, angry at his lack of mental discipline. He snarls and blows a gust of air from his nose as he leans his head, perhaps a bit too hard, back against the wall.

\-------------

Sherlock’s head is back, his eyes are closed, and his knees are pulled up against his chest. He’s been deep in thought for so long now that he’s almost lost track of how much time has passed. His arms are resting on his knees, and between his hands he holds a second, almost empty, mug of tea. Suddenly and for some inexplicable reason, he remembers a quote by Oscar Wilde, that he read as a young boy in school. “ _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself…_ ” Sherlock isn’t exactly sure why, but this is the push he needs. He decides right then that he will get it over with and read the damn book. He gulps back the last of the contents of his mug with a grimace. He looks down at the bits of dregs and dust left at the bottom of the bottom, studying them briefly, as he waits for his courage to build. One of the first things he’s going to do when he gets home is have a decent cup of tea. He sets the mug aside, stands up, and walks the short distance across the room to where the book now is. He bends down, moves the scarf aside, and carefully, apologetically, picks it up.

The book is damaged now. The sudden and violent contact with the wall and ground have given it the first of many scars. The dust jacket is torn, and some of the pages have been bent. Water marks have rippled the pages and stained the cloth cover, from when the basin was knocked as the book fell. There’s dirt on the pages and cover, and when Sherlock tries to wipe it off, it leaves smudged stains of light grey across the paper. He works the book with his hands, trying his best to restore it to its original condition, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. For a very short time, this had been one of his few possession that hadn’t been tainted by the mission, but not anymore. He’s inflicted these scars on the book, and it will never been the same again.

Book in hand, he walks back over to the cot. He barely takes his eyes off it as he slowly sits down. Hearing the cot creak under his weight as he settles himself back against the wall. He’s given himself permission to take in every experience this book has to offer him, and there’s no going back now. He hasn’t allowed himself this kind of indulgence since leaving London. Later, in the light of a new day, he’ll probably berate himself for letting his guard down like this, as well as regret the sleep he knows he won’t be getting tonight. But right now, in this moment, nothing else matters except this book, and everything it contains.

He removes the dust jacket, noticing a small ‘About the Author’ blurb on the inside fold. There’s a picture of John, and although Sherlock doesn’t read the text, his eyes quickly scan over it, picking up key words like  _Afghanistan, doctor, retired_. Carefully, he places it in front him on the cot. He studies the cloth-bound cover. It’s purple, and even in the less than ideal light level, Sherlock can see a directionality and sheen to the weave of the cloth. There’s gold debossed lettering on the spine, indicating the title, authorship and publisher. The front cover has no lettering, only a small, gold debossed silhouette of a deerstalker hat. The cloth-bound cover is still mostly intact save for a few scuffs and water stains, but as Sherlock runs his hands over it, the smoothness and softness of the cloth is interrupted by ingrained dirt. He closes his eyes and brings the book to his face as he takes a long inhale through his nose. The new-book smell is still there, as well as the most minute hint of the black permanent marker John used to sign it, but it too has been polluted by the musty smell of dirt. He opens the book. The pages are stained from the dirt, and bent from the rough treatment, but still very much readable.

He hopes that reading the book will get it out of his system so he can move on. The escapism the book will provide may prove to be just the thing he needs to refresh himself for the missions to come, so he can focus on current things again. It will be hard to become completely lost in the book - its scars are a constant reminder of where he is. So many experiences contained in these simple pages, all sullied by what Sherlock has done in his stupid, violent outburst.

The first piece of text he encounters, aside from the title page, copyright and publisher information, is a page with only one simple sentence printed on it. A dedication, in the centre of the top half of the page:

_You were the best and wisest man I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._

The next page is an index of the various cases John’s chosen to include in this book, and Sherlock recognises most of the titles as being from his blog. After that is a small foreword, written almost as a eulogy, where John talks about his journey of writing the book, and the support he’s found in the people who have helped him. He thanks a few people. Most of them are names Sherlock doesn’t recognise, including a woman named Mary Morstan, who is given special recognition. Sherlock takes great comfort in knowing that John has been able to find new friends to help him move on. The last thing John mentions in the foreword, is that he never has, and never will believe Sherlock was a fraud.

He can barely recall the last time he read for pleasure, although he can’t tell if this is one of those times or not. Everything in the book so far has shown Sherlock just how much John believed in him. No amount of words on that rooftop, on that day at St Bart’s, could have convinced John that Sherlock was the type of man he was claiming to be.

Sherlock moves on to the first case - their first case:  _A Study in Pink_. Just reading the words invokes a torrent of memories… He reads though it, savouring every word, scolding himself for not realising John’s talent and obvious love of writing. He barely pauses when he comes to the end of that first entry, moving quickly to the next chapter,  _The Blind Banker_. After that,  _The Great Game, The Geek Interpreter, The Speckled Blonde, The Aluminium Crutch_ … Sherlock reads the entire book, cover to cover. By the time he’s reading the last sentence of the last paragraph of the afterword, the sun is beginning to rise on a new day. His back and limbs are cramped and sore, his eyes hurt, and he feels exhausted. Physically, he knows exactly how he feels. Mentally... Well, that’s another thing altogether.


End file.
